Tuesday Morning
by mholub00
Summary: The floor is covered in red, and it almost feels like freedom. (Or Why Natasha Cut Her Hair.) (Seven Parts)
1. Wednesday

**A/N: In the movie-verse, this story takes place post Iron Man 2, post The Incredible Hulk, and post Thor...because in the comic-verse they all occur in one week. **

She arrives home late Wednesday night, stumbling up the stairs and fighting to keep her eyes open. Six months she's been gone, yet she knows the way like the back of her hand.

Open the door. Three steps straight. Turn. Thirteen stairs. Two steps left. Ignore the looks from the people on the landing. Thirteen more stairs, two steps, and thirteen more. Turn and eight steps to the door.

The key goes in the lock and the old wood creaks and groans in protest.

Despite the darkness, she works her way easily around the furniture, tells herself she should be more cautious in the pitch black room but lacks the energy to follow through.

Her bed has never felt more comfortable and she thinks she should probably take off her shoes and maybe her coat.

She's asleep before her head hits the pillow and apartment lapses into silence.


	2. Thursday

It is half past noon before she opens her eyes and another hour and several missed phone calls later she manages to drag herself from the bed.

She's missed debriefing, which wouldn't matter if Coulson was there but he's in New Mexico. It definitely won't score her points with Fury, though she's not sure what they expected. One eight hour sleep couldn't make up for 82 straight hours of hard work and ass kicking.

Shrugging her shoulders when her phone rings yet again, she throws it on the still made bed and walks away.

The world won't go to shit in the time it will take to shower, she decides.

Dirt and blood run down the drain as she washes herself finally and truly clean, the last of the gravel leaving her tangled curls.

In the mirror she counts the bruises covering her porcelain skin.

Eight on her right arm. Four on her left. Dr. Sterns wasn't exactly gentle when she dragged his half mutated form out of the crumbling disaster that was his office.

Her left shoulder and across her neck is black and purple and blue, not the worst that could have happened upon being crushed by pieces of a falling wall.

Red and blistered skin covers a patch of one leg, more bruises on the other.

She traces the blue-stitched gashes across her abdomen, healing skin that's certainly going to leave more scars.

This is the last time, she swears, she ever goes after the Hulk.


	3. Friday

When she goes out, she wears sunglasses.

Dark sunglasses, black jacket, black jeans, black boots.

The shirt she throws on is purple.

Nothing special, but it reminds her of him. Maybe because it was his, once upon a time. She won it in a drinking game, the soft cotton t-shirt being the cause of the argument that ended with him passed out on the floor and an empty bottle of vodka in her hand.

She smiles at the memory.

The dark glasses hide her eyes, and she likes that. He told her once that her eyes were the crack in her mask. A crack only he could see, but a crack nonetheless.

A cool breeze sends the leaves into a frenzy of noise, almost like whispers.

The bench she sits on is the same one on which she first let him glimpse her past.

Because the whisper of the leaves is the tree passing secrets, she told him. A thought that would be nice, had it not been tainted with the lesson that every whisper is an enemy, a hidden sniper waiting to shoot you down.

She reminds herself that her life has been saved by that lesson many times and the shiver that runs down her spine is not from the cold.

Loud voices and laughter float down the paths of the park in the form of families with strollers and hand-holding couples.

The sky gets darker, rain clouds moving in to ruin a blue sky, and she stands in silence, shoves her hands deeper in the pockets of her jacket, and walks home alone.


	4. Saturday

It takes her a minute to realize the screaming- the pain filled, agonized screams- are hers.

She stumbles blindly from the bed, the visions from the nightmare plaguing even her open eyes.

The sweaty t-shirt clings to her back and she curses as her foot connects with the corner of the dresser. But she ignores the pain, the only thought on her mind being where she needs to go.

Not until she throws open the door to his pitch black room does she remember that he's not there.

The light is too bright but she flips it on anyway, staring around his empty room. The untouched bed, the pile of clothes in the corner, a pistol sitting unloaded on the dresser.

He's not there.

But she knew that.

Her breathes come shallower and shorter and she knows it's only seconds before the hyperventilating starts.

Without a second thought she crosses the room, sliding open the closet door. On the top self she sees it, the navy blue fabric folded neatly.

The sweatshirt slips easily over her head. It's familiar and still soft, though the words across the chest have peeled almost entirely off.

She buries her face in the long sleeves and takes deep breaths, closing her eyes.

It smells like wood smoke and beer and thunderstorms and pancakes and books and his guitar and that one thing that she can never place, one thing that is distinctly him.

For the first time in six months she lets herself admit that she misses him.

He'll be home, she repeats. He'll be home soon.


	5. Sunday

There is no mercy given to the punching bag.

The repetitive thud on the worn leather is an oddly comforting sound.

Fury stands and watches from the doorway for a while before making his presence officially known, though she knew he was there.

He reminds her that she is not supposed to be there. That's what 'a break' means.

He tells her to go home. Get some sleep.

She nods her head.

Even manages a "yes sir" and an exhausted smile.

When he's disappeared down the hallway, she turns back to the punching bag.

The leather is red. Red like her ledger.

One punch for each ghost that comes at night; for the body count on her shoulders.

Her knuckles are bloody and raw by the time she stops.


	6. Monday

The dress she puts on isn't new.

It's old and ratty and not even that nice looking anymore. It's his favorite so she wears it.

He would say he likes her better in sweatpants and an old t-shirt though the fact she'd dressed would make him feel special, she thinks and she smiles.

She burns her finger on the curling iron, but she watches the ringlets fall and hears his voice saying her hair is beautiful like a California wildfire; like lava rolling down the side of a volcano; like the waterfalls of fire that he says are waiting for them in hell; and she doesn't really care about the pain.

A wine bottle is set on the table- some gift delivered by some guy from some company with a note reading 'thanks for not letting me die –Tony,'- and two glasses go down next to it, clean and empty.

The chair she curls up in is far too comfortable for eating re-heated spaghetti and reading, but it's where she picks to wait for him and his sarcastic comments and the punch on the shoulder that reminds her she's okay, and he's okay, and everything else is a little bit okay too.

As darkness falls, the sky is cloudless and she thinks it's a night to sit on the roof and try to find stars.

She falls asleep, still watching for the door to open.


	7. Tuesday

_"…Hey Nat, it's me. It's Clint. Um, listen- so we ran into a bit of a snag in the Land of Enchantment and, well, I'm…I'm not coming home. Not yet._

_I can't really say much, mostly just because I have no idea what's going on. _

_Coulson will tell you, when he gets back. So ask him._

_And…shit, I've gotta go. I'm sorry Nat._

_I still owe you that baseball game."_

Blinding morning light highlights the very clean and very empty wine glasses still set upside down on the table. The bottle is still corked.

She listens to the message again as she stares in the bathroom mirror.

The perfect red curls still cascade over her shoulders and she thinks it almost looks like a waterfall, but it doesn't seem beautiful anymore.

Everything has changed yet not a hair is out of place.

Her hand clenches into a fist, nails digging into her palm.

Then she sees the scissors.

And she picks them up.

The _snip_ is a satisfying sound and one by one, the curls fall in slow motion.

She thinks they look to almost be floating, drifting. Almost like a bird, but not.

The bathroom floor is covered in red, and it almost feels like freedom.


End file.
